January Third
by Tyleet27
Summary: His hair swings past his hips now, gold and uncombed, curling behind his ears in a way that he’ll tell you himself is anything but feminine. ErestorGlorfindel, modern day


Title: January Third

Author: Tyleet27

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this work of fiction--those all belong to the Master Tolkien. The story and descriptions, however, belong entirely to me.

His hair swings past his hips now--gold and uncombed, curling behind his ears in a way that he'll tell you himself is anything but feminine.

On any other morning he'd put on a CD and sing to his reflection in the mirror while he spread avacado over his toast, but not today, the third day after New Years.

Instead he notices, as if from far away, that his hands are trembling a little as he pours his French Roast into a mug, and that his eyes in the mirror are unreadable--either introverted or empty. He cant tell which.

"Fin," he whispers to himself, watching his mouth form the curiously short name with a pang of unreasonable loss.

And then he's out the door--he walks to work every morning--likes the early crispness to slip under his jacket and wake him up better than any kind of caffeine could.

He's halfway to the office when he decides he doesnt want to go to work today--doesnt want to go in and joke with Mel the sandwich boy at his desk and agree that this week they'll find some other way besides spitting into Roger's bagel to fuck off the boss that daily threatens Fin with getting fired for being such a fag, please tie that damn hair back if you dont mind; a way to say 'fuck off' to the job that stops Mel from becoming a writer, Linda at the next cubicle over from becoming a singer, and Fin from becoming...well, he doesnt know yet.

Something else.

So he's about halfway to the library now, feverishly certain that there is nothing else he could do on this day, the day when it feels like all the depressions and sorrows and angers he miraculously keeps away the rest of the year come crashing down on him.

He doesnt know why the third of January always makes him frightened, suddenly tearing a hole in his chest he doesnt think he can ever fill up again, a wound that never really seems to go away.

He just knows thats the way its always been.

Outside the library a group of teens that should be on their way to high school stop to admire his ass, oh-so-perfectly encased in naturally ripped denim, and the honey'd fall of hair that caresses the small of his back.

On any other day he would have turned to give a tolerant smile and a wink before they realised that the Wrangler jeans and curve of combat boots might mean something other than "lesbian", but today he just hurries up the gum-stained steps, desperate for the sanctuary of the written word.

Inside, past the tired woman at the front desk, sharp left, and he's in the Children's section, the colorfully painted walls and twisting shelves familiar and soothing.

He hurries down to the last row, Y-fiction T-Z, and there it is!

The purple circles under his eyes provide a sharp contrast to the golden hue of his skin, and more than one mother gives him a suspicious look as he sits down on the rainbow colored blocks where the toddlers play.

(The toddlers themselves, however, instinctively stumble over to where he sits, intrigued by the spun-gold mess of his hair, before being pulled back by their cautious parents.)

"Do you remember yet?" a voice asks him quietly, and he looks up to see the librarian standing next to him.

Not the irritated woman at the front, but the Children's section librarian whose name tag is curiously blank.

Fin's gaze is drawn to straight black hair cut bluntly just past his shoulder-blades and eyes of a grey color that he thinks he should know meet his own, and for no reason whatsoever he is filled with a terrible sadness.

"Remember what?" he asks softly, and the unbearable sorrow of January third hits him just a little deeper when that soft (he instinctively knows it would be soft) mouth breaks out into a small, bitter smile.

"Nothing," says the librarian, sitting next to him on the blocks. "Only we dont get many people interested in that particular book much, especially today," the librarian says, shaking his hair back, and Fin has a strange urge to touch just where the ear meets that pale neck.

"Oh," he says foolishly, wishing he understood more, for more seems to be expected of him.

"Why especially today?"

"Sometimes," the librarian says slowly, ignoring his question, "things go in circles. All the myths are essentially the same, all of history repeats and recurrs, and the same themes keep coming back."

The librarian picks the book up from Fin's lap, and looks at it speculatively.

"Someone I love died today," he says, and Fin starts, suddenly.

"Im sorry."

Again, the librarian doesnt acknowledge that he has spoken.

"But thats the pattern, dont you see? He leaves me, I wait, he returns, then leaves again."

"The waiting is hard," he says fiercely, turning to look at Fin so that he can see the tears in the other's eyes, "But I dont regret it. I have no regrets. None," he hisses, so Fin is burned by the other's grey intensity.

"I--I dont know what to say," Fin stammers, an uncertain blush rising in his cheeks.

A pale hand very gently reaches out and brushes down his face, then retreats.

It burns.

"I know," the librarian says softly, and with so much sorrow that Fin's heart aches for him.

"Im sorry to have troubled you," he says abruptly, and stands, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"Its no trouble," Fin says helplessly, and the librarian brushes him off, hands tightening on his elbows.

"Well, regardless. Would," he hesitates, then sighs. "Would you like to check that out?"

Fin follows him to the desk, and watches as the book is swiped, cleared, then handed to him.

Fin starts to walk away, then turns back. "I hope--that whoever he is--you find him again," he says, still feeling unbelievably out of his depth and not at all sure that the man isnt crazy, but certain that those grey eyes should never cloud over with grief.

"I know I will," the librarian whispers, then smiles at him.

The next whisper follows him as he walks out of the library, The Silmarillion in his hand--ever so softly spoken, but he is sure that the syllables will echo throughout the labrynthine corridors of his mind forever.

"Goodbye, Glorfindel."


End file.
